What the Snowman Learned About Love
by Lila2
Summary: After the island, Claire and Owen have to move on. It helps that they imprint on each other.


**Title:** "What the Snowman Learned About Love"

 **Author:** Lila **  
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 **Rating:** PG-13 **  
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 **Character/Pairing:** Claire, Claire/Owen

 **Spoiler:** none

 **Length:** one-shot **  
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 **Summary:** After the island, Claire and Owen have to move on. It helps that they imprint on each other.

 **Disclaimer:** Not mine, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs.

 **Author's Note:** So you guys, I know there are a ton of post-film "Claire and Owen heal" fics, but I had this idea and it wouldn't stop bothering me and really, is there such a thing as too much fic? I hope not. Title and cut courtesy of Stars. Enjoy.

PS: I have no idea where Claire actually lives, but she seems like the type that would secretly, despite her redhead's complexion, like the beach.

PSS: Claire is the snowman in this fic and it's about how her heart melts. I figured that might need some clearing up given the strangeness of the title.

* * *

 _How the heart bends_

 _And summer she sends_

 _A sky that refuses to die…_

 _...you come around_

Owen doesn't know it, but Claire was there when Blue was born.

It had been a day like any other on Isla Nublar (hot, clear skies, no chance of rain) and she'd had meetings until 6:00 and documents to review and most certainly did not have the time to watch a dinosaur being born. She'd already seen the footage of the T-Rex pushing through her egg a dozen years earlier, and when she's seen one dinosaur birth, she's seen them all.

She knows well enough. The park's visitors are certainly clear about it on their satisfaction surveys.

But Simon had insisted and when Simon says, she jumped to whatever height he specified. Which is how she found herself behind several inches of shatterproof glass watching Dr. Wu act like a complete fool while the egg shook back and forth. She remembers trying to keep from checking the Blackberry gripped in her left hand. She hadn't been there when her nephews were born; watching an asset make its way into the world is even less interesting.

"Focus, Claire," Simon had said and she remembers gritting her teeth and forcing her attention on the egg. There was a crack splitting one side and Wu was practically coming in his pants, but neither of those things were what caught her attention.

It was the man, one of the Navy handlers by the look of him, tall and broad and completely fixated on the action happening in front of him. He was bent at the waist, hair messy from the hands he kept running through it, crooning to an _egg_ like he was coaching her through labor. Maybe he had been. She also remembers their one and only date, how he talked about his raptors like they were family. "My girls understand me better than most people," he'd said and it had been both endearing and slightly pathetic and confirmed her decision never to see him again.

When the egg finally broke and a sharp beak poked through the mess of its shell, Wu squealed but Owen only smiled, so wide Claire was amazed it didn't split his cheeks. He reached for the tiny creature, face filled with wonder, ignoring the sharp teeth and screeching wails to hold her in one large hand and stare into beady eyes. "Hey there, baby blue," he said, stroked a long, blunt finger down the stripe running the length of the raptor's back and she knows it's not possible, but Claire saw it with her own eyes, how a prehistoric predator curled into Owen's palm and purred.

She knew, even then, he wouldn't be like anyone else she ever met.

* * *

Her nephews won't let go of Owen. Gray literally won't let go of him and every time Zach walks more than ten feet, he checks to make sure Owen hasn't disappeared from sight.

If it bothers him, he doesn't let on, gives each boy a task and a bag of supplies and herds them from patient to patient as he demonstrates the basic first aid he learned in the service. He picks up a group of admirers along the way and even through the din in the hanger Claire can hear the deep timber of his laugh. She glances up and he's surrounded by girls holding pitchers of water and bags of paper cups, faces tilted eagerly as they await his orders. They obediently dole out food and drink while he sees to the wounded, checking in only when their tasks are complete.

Claire can't say she's surprised. The raptors are gone, but Owen's still an alpha. He'll always be looking for his pack.

* * *

She has an apartment on the beach. It's a few blocks from the ocean and down the street from her favorite organic coffee shop and on the rare occasion she's home long enough to swap out her clothes, she runs in the surf just as the sun rises. It's hard on her knees and she comes home covered in sand and sweat, but she likes the challenge. She doesn't think it would shock even a complete stranger.

"I wouldn't have taken you for the Venice Beach type," Owen says as she fiddles with the lock to her front door.

There's a retort waiting for him but it takes too much energy to form on her tongue, so she only shrugs and turns the key. "I liked the view."

Owen follows her inside and sets their bags by the door. He doesn't say anything but his sharp eyes sweep the interior, take in the clean neutrals and soft woods. She feels a bit like the day she showed him the Indominus Rex, only it's her home he's searching for signs of life.

"Well, this looks like you," he finally says.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demands and crosses her arms over her chest. Her shirt is gray, a pale gray button-down that Karen found in the airport gift shop. It goes well with the rest of her apartment.

"Just, you know…" he trails off, gesturing at her living room. "Are you allergic to color?"

"No one's forcing you to stay here." The words come out more clipped than she intended but she doesn't apologize. This is her home. She did the nice thing by offering to let him crash on her couch. If he doesn't like it, he can find somewhere else to sleep.

Owen sighs. "That's not what I meant."

He's wearing the same wounded expression as when she insulted his board shorts and taste in tequila, and it brings the excruciating awkwardness of their failed date into focus. It seems they only get along in times of crisis and here in her bare apartment, with nothing but time on their hands, they're falling into old patterns. It was a bad idea inviting him to stay.

"Hey, hey," he says and catches her hand, strokes the pad of a rough, calloused thumb over the inside of her wrist. Her pulse thuds erratically under the thin skin and he smiles down at her, the same boyish smile that convinced her to finish what could only be called a date from hell. He brushes her hair back from her face with his free hand and tucks a tangled strand behind her ear. "I was wrong about the room." He holds up her hair so it catches the light, so many shades of red spilling over the pale furniture and white walls. "I don't think I've ever seen something so beautiful."

Her breath catches in her chest and her lips part but he only leans in and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Thank you for taking me in."

She manages a casual shrug. "We need to stick together, right? For survival."

Owen steps back to put space between them. "Nothing's more important than survival."

His words hang in the air – they know too well the cost of survival. She still has to call Zara's parents and draft a condolence letter for Masrani and so many other things she doesn't want to do, so many things that make her heart clench and the blood drain from her face, but Owen sees it, sees everything, and he takes her hand again, thumb stroking the pulse point in her wrist.

"Whatever it is can wait." He tugs her onto the balcony and it's blinding, all the colors spreading across the sky and bleeding into the sea. "Let's remember why we're alive."

The sun sets and the day ends so another begins (another day they're alive, another day they've survived). He doesn't let go of her hand.

* * *

Claire doesn't have nightmares.

She remembers of course, can't imagine she'd ever forget, but it doesn't haunt her dreams. She doesn't wake up screaming, soaked in sweat and heart beating so fast it threatens to burst. She sleeps calmly through the night, wakes feeling rested and ready to start her day and ignores just how guilty it makes her feel. People died on her watch. Families were destroyed on her watch. Lives were ruined on her watch and she doesn't even have dark circles beneath her eyes to show for it.

She makes coffee and omelets, egg whites for her and yokes for Owen, hands him a cup of black coffee as he emerges from the bathroom rubbing his eyes. There are bags under them and a concavity to his cheeks that doesn't detract from his looks but worry her still.

Because Claire doesn't have nightmares but Owen does.

Their first night she makes up the couch while he watches her from the dining room wearing his boxer-briefs and a stretched out Kappa Kappa Gamma t-shirt she sometimes sleeps in. A spare wardrobe is something he doesn't have in abundance, and she focuses on finding her extra comforter to keep from thinking about him wearing her clothes.

"I've never been inside a sorority girl before," he says and she rolls her eyes, puts the pillows in their cases.

"Somehow I doubt that."

He takes the comforter and spreads it over the couch. "I went to the Naval Academy, Claire. Not a lot of ladies hanging around Annapolis."

She fluffs the pillows. "Enjoy it while it lasts. We're taking you clothes shopping tomorrow."

His smile could only be described as sinful. "Oh, I will…"

She ducks her head to hide her heated cheeks and says goodnight before retiring to her bedroom. Sleep comes easy to her but it's a struggle for Owen, and some time around 3:00 am she bolts up in bed, heart hammering in her chest as she remembers where she is, that she's safe and secure and _home_.

Still, there was a crash in her living room and she gingerly tiptoes out of the bedroom to find the lamp that used to reside on her end table lying in pieces on the hardwood floor.

Owen looks devastated as he tries to pick up the ceramic shards. "I'm sorry. I had this dream and then I woke up and I sometimes forget that I'm six-foot-two."

Claire nods and comes over to inspect the damage. He is a big man, tall and broad and practically vibrating with energy. She noticed it the first time she met him, when she cowered behind him on the island, when he stepped into her sparse apartment and managed to take up all the space. He's a big man but right now he looks impossibly small, crouched in front of her couch and peering at her like she has all the answers.

"Let's get this cleaned up," she says and takes his wrist, tugs him to his feet and pushes him to sit on the couch.

He's quiet while she sweeps up the ceramic and glass, still watching her with stricken eyes. "I'll pay for the lamp."

She shakes her head. "You're unemployed and I hated it anyway."

"I'm sorry," he says. "I thought I was done with this."

She sits down beside him and takes his hand, rubs her thumb over the pulse in his wrist, soothes the rigid muscles in his forearm. "You've had PTSD before."

"After I got out of the Navy. It took a while to remember how to be a civilian again." Beneath her fingers, the tension slips from his muscles and he drops his arm to rest it in her lap. "The island made it easier, gave me a purpose, and now…" His shoulders slump and he looks away.

It's the raptors again, the animals he saw die before his eyes, creatures he held in his hands and raised from birth and trained and respected and _l_ _oved_. She took Zach and Gray home. She knows how lucky she is.

"You have me," she says. "You help me."

Owen laughs, a harsh bark, but she lets out a relieved breath. It's hard seeing him so broken, even if it's the version she knows how to handle. Fixing things is what she does, but it's never hurt this much to piece something back together. "I eat your food and run up your air conditioning bill and broke your lamp. Admit you got the short end of the stick."

He's not entirely wrong – her expenses will have tripled if they keep up this lifestyle – but she didn't get a raw deal.

She grips his wrist so he'll look at her, and cups his cheek in her free hand. It's somewhere past stubble, the beard he's letting grow, and it tickles her skin so she smiles at him. "You make me feel less alone. It's more than I deserve but it's what I got. That's what you give me."

He watches her for a long moment, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, before his mouth breaks into something resembling his old cocksure grin. "I require a lot of hot water. And I might wear board shorts. Think you can handle it?"

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it."

They stare at each other for a bit. They're sitting on her couch and she's still holding his hand and the room is too warm even though Owen's cranked the air conditioning up past a safe place.

"Alright," he says just when she thinks she can't take it anymore. "I think it's time for bed."

It's her signal to leave but she can't, can't seem to let go of his hand. She wasn't lying about how he makes her feel. She looks pointedly at the couch. "There might still be broken glass."

It's unlikely, given how the lamp fell, but he doesn't fight her on it, lets her drag him to his feet and down the hall to her bedroom. He's still quiet when she draws back the covers and waits for him to slide under the sheets, but he lets out a ragged breath when she curls around him, like Blue in her shell, folds him in her arms and slides a leg over his thigh and holds him close all night long.

* * *

It's two more days before they make it out of the house. Claire would have gone longer, but they ran out of food and Owen's down to his last pair of drugstore underwear. She still might have pushed but then he tells her that she's starting to resemble a ghost and she realizes it's time to get some vitamin D.

"I am a redhead," she reminds him as they drive to Costco, the wind blowing through the open window and whipping strands of hair across her face. "We're not exactly known for our Mediterranean complexions."

"Trust me, I know," he says, doesn't bother hiding the suggestion in his voice.

She has her eyes on the road but she can feel him looking at her, a long, hard look that reminds her of a guy she met at her first college frat party. Her hair had reached past her bra strap then and he'd taken one look at her and made a lame joke about the curtain matching the drapes. She can practically hear the gears turning in Owen's head, the comment he could make, but he clears his throat and changes the radio station.

He mans the cart when they enter the store and fills it with packets of Henleys and cotton t-shirts and gym socks. His Carhartt pants arrived in the mail the day before and she's relieved that he'll finally have a clean shirt that didn't previously belong to her. They browse in comfortable silence until he starts sizing black boxer-briefs and she hurries across the display, absently picks up a pair of discounted yoga pants and pretends to check the price.

Thing is, Claire doesn't get nightmares but it doesn't mean the island has left her entirely. There are a lot of people in this Costco, especially on a Sunday afternoon. Families swarm around her, calling out names and holding up clothes, and she tells herself that it's fine, they're just people, but there are so many of them and they won't go away.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" She dimly hears the stranger's voice, tightens her grip on the yoga pants and tries not to completely lose her shit, a tough request when it feels like her windpipe is closing in on itself.

But Owen's there, the way she knew he would be, and he pulls the stupid pants out of her hand and tugs her into a cool corner, sets her on the floor beside boxes of Nutribullets, tucks her head between her knees and tells her to _breathe_.

She'd yell at him to stay if only she could form words, but she can't do much more than try forcing air in and out of her lungs. He's only gone for a second, ignoring the protests of an outraged Vitamix vendor, and pressing a cool cup of smoothie against her cheek.

"Count, Claire," he whispers in her ear. "One, two, three, four…"

She tries, she tries so hard, but she can still hear the people – _so many people_ – the ones she left behind, the ones she saw die, the ones still asking for condolences and money and why, Claire, why? Why did you create a monster and think you could control it?

"Claire," he says again. "Listen to me. Listen to _me_." She blinks and meets his eyes, calm and green and so incredibly steady, and follows his voice down the path. Gradually, it doesn't feel like there's an elephant sitting on her chest.

"I got you," he says when she stops gasping for breath, when the color starts returning to his cheeks and she doesn't think she's going to die. He's stroking his hand through her hair and talking to her like Blue the day she was born, like he's holding her in the palm of his hand, and Claire's slumped against a display case of blenders and sitting on the dirty floor but she's never felt more safe.

She smiles at him, feels that same sense of wonder when he smiles back, and he keeps stroking his hand through her hair until she's ready to stand on her own. He looks like the Owen she remembers but she's not the Claire she knows, not this woman that loses it in public and spills her dirty laundry for strangers to see.

"I need a minute." She's glad he was there but she needs some time to herself, time to find the Claire Dearing she left behind on that island.

"Go wait in the car. I'll finish up here." She nods, relieved to be free, and takes a step forward. He looks sheepish. "And maybe give me your credit card."

That draws a smile out of her and she fishes in her purse for her wallet. "Need anything else? Maybe a massage? A Cartier watch?"

He rolls his eyes but doesn't turn down the AmEx. "Well, look who's feeling better."

She turns her smile into a smirk. "Not every girl grows up to be a Sugar Mama."

For a moment she think she's gone too far, stooped too low in pointing out the more uncomfortable points of their relationship, but he only laughs, low and rich and anything but angry. "Go put your feet up, princess. I'll take it from here."

She makes it back to the car on her own, presses the ignition button and blasts the air to a temperature that would make Owen weep. She closes her eyes and soaks in the cold, so different than all those people closing in around her (hot like too many bodies in too small a space, hot like fetid breath washing over her face and sinking into her pores and she wondered if she'd ever smell anything good again) but Owen's knocking on the window and watching her with a wrinkled brow.

"You good?"

Claire takes a breath and forces a weak smile. "I'm good." She pops the trunk and follows his instructions to stay put rather than help with the groceries, even scoots into the passenger seat so he can drive them home.

He lets her be during the ride, lets her rest her cheek against the cool glass and ignore the world around her. He makes dinner too, after unpacking the boxes and depositing her on the couch with a glass of wine.

She hears noise from the outside (They're those people from dinosaur island, Phil. Let them borrow your damn grill!) and then Owen's grilling steaks on their chagrinned neighbor's balcony and mixing margaritas from the tequila he bought at Costco.

"Touché," she laughs and picks up her glass to take a tentative sip. He's watching her closely, too closely for comfort, and she reaches out to rest her hand on his knee. He jerks, but in a good way, and she feels the last of the tension slip from her shoulders. She feels better just being here, sitting beside him in the early evening darkness, eating Costo steaks and drinking bad tequila. She feels better being with _him_ and she wants him to know. "Thank you for before."

He shrugs and takes a sip of his margarita, adds bit more lime juice to his glass. "You're there for me, I'm there for you, right?"

"Right," she says and settles back in her chair. "Something like that."

* * *

It's another two days before Claire ventures out on her own. Costco sells excellent steaks but is weak on produce and milk, so she leaves Owen on the couch and takes herself to the grocery store.

She makes it there fine but can't seem to take her hands off the steering wheel or get out of the car. It's early, but the parking lot is half full and the incident from Sunday is fresh in her mind. She's not sure she can be around so many people without panicking. She's still employed, albeit working from her dining room table. She can make it through the day when the only person she needs to see or hear is Owen.

But he's sleeping through the night when he's in her bed and she owes this to him, to deal with her fears the way he's working through his. So she counts to ten and finds a shopping cart and makes it through her grocery list without incident.

Almost.

From the moment she stepped into the market, people wouldn't stop staring at her and she mostly ignores the looks, pretends she's still climbing the Masrani corporate ladder and there's nothing standing in her way, but it hits a breaking point in the freezer aisle. A woman tries to talk to her and she has to step away, stick her head in a glass case filled with frozen pizzas until her heart rate slows and she can breathe again. Thankfully, the woman wants nothing but her autograph and didn't decide to document the incident, so she shakily pays for her groceries and drive herself home.

"How was it?" Owen asks as they unpack the bags and she ignores him for a long moment and pretends to rearrange the refrigerator. "Claire," he tries again. "Talk to me. Now."

She straightens and faces him, still holding a carton of almond milk to her chest. "Everyone kept staring at me. It was weird." She leaves out the incident with the pizza, doesn't want him to think she's too far gone to venture out in public on her own.

He takes the milk and finds a space on the top shelf. "Your face was plastered on front pages around the world. People are bound to recognize you."

"It was a week ago. Don't they have other things to worry about?"

"You're a meme, Claire. This isn't going away any time soon."

She stares at him blankly. "A what?"

He laughs, that deep, rich laugh that makes her heart catch in her chest, and tugs her into the living room, plops down on the couch and pulls up a Buzzfeed article on her laptop. Claire's not a Luddite – she had an iPhone 3 for pete's sake and checks gofugyourself regularly, ready for the day they declare nude pumps fashionable again – but this meme thing has gone right over her head.

"See?"

She peers over his shoulder to see the grainy CCTV image of her and the flare, only she's no longer baiting a T-Rex. She's fighting Isis and Rick Santorum and Nickelback and Obama and to her horror, standing shoulder to shoulder with _Justin Bieber_ while they lure a Kardashian into a trap.

"Rough day for Kim," Owen says and nudges her shoulder. "Enjoy your fame. You only get fifteen minutes of it."

She slides down next to him and buries her head in his shoulder while he laughs into her hair. It's so easy, maybe too easy, and it makes her feel guilty about keeping things from him. "I kind of lost it at Ralph's."

He pulls back to study her face. "What happened?"

It takes a moment before she ready to explain, to find the courage to show him the weakest parts of herself and hope he won't walk away. "Some woman tried to talk to me and I couldn't handle it." Her cheeks flush from the memory. "I had to stick my head in the freezer until I calmed down."

He chuckles lightly, but without mocking, and puts a hand on her bare knee. His hands are still calloused and rough and they do things to her insides, but even without that, just the touch of his skin on hers makes it easier to breathe.

"I think we call that making progress," he says. She gives him a skeptical look and but he keeps going. "You made it out of the house on your own. I still haven't done that yet."

"You're sleeping through the night."

He smiles and the fingers on her knee slide a few centimeters up her thigh. "That's because I have you."

Claire smiles and clears her throat, glances at the computer. "What were you doing while I was gone?" She immediately regrets her words, because he grabs the laptop and types away eagerly but mostly because his hand is no longer on her leg.

But his face lights up as he shoves the computer into her lap and it almost makes up for the lack of contact between them. "I think I found a job." He's grinning at her not unlike the puppies on the screen, a crowd of wounded pitbulls he wants to nurse back to health. "What do you think?"

She thinks of the look on his face when Blue was born and the excitement in his eyes, on their one and only date, when he told her stories about his adventures with the raptors, but she mostly thinks about what a good man he is. "I think they'll be lucky to have you."

He sighs heavily. "We need to leave the house again. I have an interview tomorrow and don't own a tie."

Claire laughs and reaches for her car keys. "I guess we'll do it together."

"Yeah," he says. "We'll do it together."

* * *

The checks arrive a week after Owen starts his job.

They bought a green tie the same color as his eyes and she'd helped him knot it but has a sinking feeling that he'd have gotten the job even wearing board shorts. She's seen the way he looked at a _velociraptor_. She can only imagine how he'd be around affection-starved puppies.

She finds out soon enough, but first, the checks arrive. They're not severance pay or hush money, but something in between. "Please don't sue us money" Owen calls them, but he's not shy about cashing his.

"Really?" Claire is incredulous. She knows how much he loathed everything about Masrani except his girls and boys. He still texts Barry regularly, although his friend is back in France and an actual visit isn't in the works just yet. But she's surprised he's willing to take their money. Her own check is still sitting in its torn envelope on her hall table.

He leans back on the couch and runs his hands through his hair. "Don't judge me."

"I'm not judging, just curious." She curls up next to him. "You hated everything about Masrani, hated InGen more. I'm trying to put it all together."

"I like what I do," he says quietly. "But I live rent-free in your apartment and spend your money – "

"You're not an imposition," she interrupts. It's an old conversation, one they've replayed several times over the last month, and she means what she says. She still lives in fear that she'll wake up one morning and find his bags packed. Four weeks out and she's not ready to do this without him.

"– I know," Owen continues. "I believe that you want me here, but I…I lost everything on that island: my job, my home, my girls…" He takes a breath. "I can't feel helpless again. I don't know if I'll ever spend that money, but I like knowing that it's there."

Claire understands, only it's not a hefty bank account, it's having him at her side. "You'll stay though." It's not a question even though she's giving him an out.

"I work for a non-profit in Los Angeles," he reminds her. "I make enough to be slightly better than homeless." Her disappointment must show on her face because he tucks a finger under her chin and turns her to face him. "I'm kidding. Even if I cashed in my blood money, there's no where else I'd rather be."

"I need you," she whispers, so soft she's not sure he heard, and part of her hopes he didn't. She's done fine on her own for fifteen years. A little trauma shouldn't change things.

"Then it's good that I'm staying."

He's close, and not just their legs pressed together on the couch, but the way he sees inside her, sees exactly what she needs. He tilts his head and then his mouth is on hers, soft and firm and so, so good.

He's still smiling when he pulls away and brushes her hair from her flushed cheeks. In her chest, her heart struggles to find its rhythm. "Now I definitely have a reason to stick around."

She swats at his shoulder, but without any real heat, cups his scratchy jaw in her hand and kisses him properly. It's hotter and wetter and he shifts so she's in his lap, can feel him hard and wanting beneath her jeans. "I'm tired of waiting."

"Okay," he says, tries to sound confident but the rough edge to his voice gives him away. His chest is heaving slightly too.

"Okay," she says and leads him to their bedroom.

* * *

"I'm thinking of quitting my job," Claire tells Karen over Facetime the next morning. Owen is out for a run and she has the apartment to herself for once, so she takes the opportunity catch up with her sister without her nephews interrupting to ask when Owen is coming to Wisconsin.

"You know what a therapist would say." Karen looks at her pointedly through the iPad screen.

"I hate working for Masrani."

"Your wardrobe and shampoo will miss the paycheck."

Claire sits back in her chair and crosses her arms. "I'm not that shallow, at least not anymore."

Her sister sighs. "I know. I'm sorry. But you just suffered a huge trauma. It's not a good time to make rash decisions."

"It feels wrong. Every time I walk through that door, I see Zara's face. I see all their faces."

Karen's eyes fill with sympathy, but she doesn't tell Claire that it isn't her fault. They've been through this, all of them have. She knows the blame belongs equally to Simon and Wu and Hoskins and the list goes on and on, but knowing doesn't absolve the guilt. Knowing doesn't change the fact that she tried to play god and lost.

"What does Owen think?" Karen's question snaps Claire out of her self-imposed rabbit hole.

"What?"

"The man sleeping on your couch. What does he think about your employment plans?" A blush spreads over Claire's cheeks and a knowing grin curves Karen's lips. "Ah. So it's like that."

"It's…" Claire trails off, uncomfortable talking about this further. She and Owen haven't fully discussed what's happening between them, let alone breaking it down for her sister.

"It's easy to fall into a relationship after you go through something like this together." Karen sounds like the self-help books she's been reading in the wake of her divorce but it doesn't deter her from playing armchair psychologist. "Scott and I met in organic chem freshmen year and look how we turned out." Karen huffs. "And neither of us are doctors either."

"It's different with Owen," Claire says and it's the glibbest response she could provide, but it's also true. They didn't work before the island because they were different people. She was a different person. She bites her lip to keep from laughing at the absurdity of her life: it took nearly being eaten by a _genetically-engineered dinosaur_ for her to self-actualize. Dr. Maslow would be proud.

"I just worry about you."

The front door opens and Claire turns to see Owen step into the foyer, sweaty and smelly but still the best thing she's ever seen. He drops a quick kiss on her cheek as he passes by. "Hey, Karen," he calls over his shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom.

From Wisconsin, Karen raises her eyebrows.

The water turns on in the shower. "I have to go," Claire says.

Karen rolls her eyes and blows her a kiss. "Take care of yourself."

Claire turns her gaze to the bathroom, already sliding off her pajama bottoms under the table. "He takes good care of me."

Karen smiles and Claire closes the iPad, follows Owen into the bathroom to take care of him too.

* * *

The dog comes next.

She's a nine-month-old puppy with enormous brown eyes and fur the color of blue slate and a fondness for Owen that borders on pathological, like Gray after the island in the way she won't detach from Owen's leg.

Claire says nothing about her appearance when he brings her home, although she does have a minor freak out about the couch and her shoes and the puddle of pee in the middle of her kitchen floor.

"She'll learn," Owen says wearily that night when the puppy finally beds down and stops whining for him to rub her belly. "They always do."

Claire rests her head on his shoulder and presses a gentle kiss to his throat. Nothing will replace Blue or her sisters, but she thinks this puppy is another step towards feeling whole.

"What should we call her?"

"Alpha," Owen says without hesitation, severs the final tie to the island. He's no longer in control and it's okay. It's okay for them both.

Allie inspires a change in Claire's life too.

Never has a dog been more appropriately named. She's their wake up call and their lullaby, demands more attention than Claire's neediest investor. One tiny whine and Owen's at her side with a treat or a belly rub or kisses he presses all over her face.

"You're not kissing me with that mouth," Claire tells him when he tries to say goodbye covered in doggy saliva.

Owen shrugs and wipes his face with his sleeve. "Dogs' mouths are cleaner than humans'."

She grimaces and takes a deep sip of coffee. "I'm not testing that theory."

He kisses her anyway, covers her face in wet, sloppy kisses so they match, and sneaks out the door before she hurls the mug of coffee in his direction. Allie sits at her feet and whines, already feeling Owen's loss. "I know, I know," Claire says and slumps onto the couch.

She's on sabbatical from Masrani, still salaried but not answering emails or coming into the office. They're treating her like she's made of broken glass and before the island it would have made her bristle with feminist indignation but now she's grateful for the reprieve. She doesn't know what she wants but it's not the corporate ladder, not anymore.

Allie pads over and lays her head in Claire's lap, stares up at her with soft, puppy dog eyes. Claire absently scratches her head, careful to avoid scar on the underside of her jaw. It's healed but bothers her sometimes, and Claire doesn't want to hurt her. She never wants to hurt an animal again.

It hits her then, what she should be doing with her life, and she bolts from the couch to kneel in front of Allie and press a kiss to her wet, slobbery face.

She takes a shower and puts on her best suit and slips into a pair of heels for the first time in over two months. She clips on Allie's leash and drags her into Masrani and pitches her idea.

"Rehabilitated animals," she tells the new board. "We made animals and called them assets and kept them in cages. We did that and we never repented." She pats Allie's scarred head. "It starts now and it starts with me."

They stare at her like they don't know who she is, and really, she can't blame them. Her hair isn't flat ironed to pin-straight perfection and her blouse is bright green, but it's not the physical things that mark the change. It's the light in her eyes and the ease in how she carries herself, like she's settled into her bones. Like she's settled into who she's become.

She stares back. "Well?"

They give her the program and a pay raise and two weeks vacation before the job even begins. It's everything she hoped for and so much more, and when she calls Owen from the garden while Allie chases butterflies, he has to tell her to slow down so he can understand.

He's happy for her but oddly subdued and that funny feeling settles in the pit of her stomach, the one that makes her think of the promotions she didn't get and how hard she worked to seem firm but not bossy, assertive but not shrill, warm but strong and smart but not arrogant and and and…

"Claire," Owen's voice breaks through. "Give me a couple hours, okay?"

"Sure," she agrees and ends the call, gripping her phone in a sweaty hand. It's the best thing that's ever happened to her and her world feels like it's ending.

She drives home and takes Allie for a walk and puts on her pajamas to feel sorry for herself. Today's the day she's been dreading, when Owen realizes he can make it on his own and doesn't need her anymore. Even winning this battle isn't worth losing him.

She's practically shaking with tension when he finally gets home. "Come outside with me."

Numbly, she follows him to the parking lot, counting the thwacks of her flip-flops to keep from screaming. Is he so worried about ending things that he needs to do it next to the car?

Her car is parked in its usual space but there's a motorcycle and sidecar parked in non-neighborly Phil's spot. Allie sniffs around the tires and pulls at her leash. "Owen, what's going on?"

"We're going on a trip."

She blinks up at him. "We are?"

He nods. "I already put in for the time. We leave tomorrow morning."

"I thought you were breaking up with me."

"Claire," he sighs and slips Allie's leash over his wrist so he can cup her face in his hands. "I'll keep saying it until you believe it. I'm here. I'm staying. I'm not going anywhere."

She stares up into his eyes, bright and green as the first days of spring, and the final tear in her heart stitches back together. She has a job and a dog and a life she thinks she can love, but mostly a partner to spend it with. There's nothing more to want. "I believe you," she whispers and pushes to her tiptoes so she can kiss him with all the love and joy she feels.

"Phew. I kind of put all my eggs in your basket."

It's a terrible joke, but more too, the promise of things to come, the family they can one day have together. "Take me away," she whispers against his mouth.

He kisses her and it's everything she needs.

* * *

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